


How Far We've Come

by CedanyTheBold



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Historical, I apologize on behalf of my brain, Violence, and certain supernatural entities will find them strange and wonderful, and sometimes disgusting, people will be people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-25 05:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6181357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CedanyTheBold/pseuds/CedanyTheBold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Formerly "An Angel's Kindness" (now chapter 1). Vignettes of Aziraphale and Crowley through the ages, in no particular chronological order, interacting with various historical figures, getting in each other's way, just having fun, what have you. Title taken from a Matchbox 20 song because I'm terribly unoriginal when it comes to titles and it seemed fitting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. London, 1941

**Author's Note:**

> I have a few snippets about Aziraphale and Crowley through the ages. I'll probably post these as a series in no particular chronological order.

London, January 1941

Aziraphale closed the blackout curtains and turned off the lights in his shop. A rumble of falling brick sent a shockwave through the small building. Books fell off shelves, and the light fixture overhead swung precariously on its chain. A green glass shade fell to the floor and shattered, and Aziraphale shivered, pulling his jumper tighter around him. He knew that compared to the noise outside no one would have heard it, but any excessive sound made him jittery these days. He took up a candlestick and lit it, grabbed a pair of wine glasses from the cabinet in the back room, and trudged down the steep ladder to the cellar where Crowley was waiting. 

It was by pure coincidence that the cellar existed, and convenience that Crowley had seen fit to occupy it. Aziraphale had miracled it into existence to store his collection of wine bottles. Crowley, who lived in a second-floor flat and had been discorporated a few too many times for his liking, had taken to hiding out somewhere that was less likely to collapse. 

“Hey,” said Crowley, a greeting he had picked up in America some twenty or so years earlier. 

“Hay is for horses, my dear boy.” answered the angel curtly, moving to light the other candles he had placed around the cellar. Angels, unlike demons, did not have exemplary night vision. 

“Sorry—good evening, Mr. Fell. Isn’t it a lovely night?” the demon replied in a voice dripping with sarcasm. 

Aziraphale snorted, a most unbecoming sound for an angel to make. “What shall we open tonight?”

Crowley got up and stood—crouched, rather, over his companion’s shoulder. “Hm…well, we have an excellent 1825 Medoc, 1723 Beaujolais, the usual suspects…Merlot…Cabernet…what are all these blessed awful American things? Did you smuggle them out back in the 20’s?”

Aziraphale gave a non-committal shrug as testament to his maybe not-so-angelic behavior. Crowley continued rattling of labels. 

“Madeira, Claret, Port…say, is that some Amontillado way in the back?” he asked, giving the angel a playful nudge. 

“Oh, shut up.” said Aziraphale. 

“Such language,” chided Crowley. 

“How long have you been down here?”

“Couple of days. Not that you noticed.”

“Ah. That would explain so many things. Tell me, have you ever considered getting out once in a while? It would do you a world of good.”

“And risk getting blown to bits in the street? I’ll pass. Not the way I had in mind.”

“My, you’re picky for a demon.”

“Oh, stuff it up your…”

Suddenly, hammering blows on the door resounded through the shop. Both angel and demon froze. Neither dared breathe, not that it mattered. The bell over the door chimed, and three sets of footsteps trailed in. Not the heavy tread of soldiers, but—

“Ow!” exclaimed Aziraphale, whose thumb had just been hit with dripping hot candle wax. 

“Someone’s here! Quiet!” said a voice from upstairs. 

A child’s voice. There were children running around in this. 

“I want Mummy!” wailed another voice. 

“Mummy’s not here,” said a third, an older boy from the sound of it. “We all have to keep each other safe now.”

The younger child began to cry. Aziraphale, feeling a twinge of compassion, headed up the ladder. Crowley grabbed his ankle. 

“What are you doing? Do you want to get us both discorporated?”

“Crowley, they’re just children. You’re not really afraid of children, are you?” Aziraphale teased. 

“You never know what kids might do these days. Little buggers running off with their daddies’ pistols and whatnot.” 

“You’re starting to sound frighteningly like me.”

“And you’re starting to sound mental. Who cares about some snot-nosed little cretins hiding out in the shop? Leave them there till it’s over. Or better yet, kick them out.”

“You know as well as I do it’s not safe. And they’re scared.” argued Aziraphale. “I don’t expect you to understand things like compassion, but it’s my duty to help however I can.”

Crowley looked almost offended as he released his ankle. The angel scampered up the ladder with surprising agility. 

“Hush, Charlie!” whispered a voice, a girl this time. “Someone’s coming!”

Aziraphale stepped into the back room through the trapdoor in the floor and headed out to the main part of the shop. Candlelight fell upon the frightened faces of three children cowering in the corner furthest from the window. 

“Hello there,” he said, slowly approaching them. “My name is Mr. Fell. I’m the owner of this shop.”

The three—two boys and a girl—said nothing. The girl had her hand clamped over the youngest boy’s mouth. The older boy, who looked to be no more than ten, stood up and approached the angel warily. 

“Sorry for coming in,” he said sheepishly. “This was the only open door. Our house was hit, and our parents…”

“Mummy!” sobbed the younger boy, who had managed to pry his sister’s hand away. 

“Quiet!” whispered the girl harshly.

“It’s quite all right,” said Aziraphale, not exactly knowing how to comfort three children whose parents had just been killed. “There’s…there’s a cellar.” he said, pointing with the candle. “In the back room, through the trapdoor. You’ll be safer down there.”

“Thank you, sir.” The oldest boy. “I’m Jack, by the way, and this is Emily and Charlie.”

“Pleasure to meet you all,” said Aziraphale. “Now, we should hurry. Are you hungry? I’ll get you three settled and then I’ll see what I have in the kitchen.”

The oldest two followed him down the ladder; he had to carry Charlie. Crowley had taken the liberty of opening a bottle of Burgundy. 

“Move over,” ordered Aziraphale. “And put that away.”

The demon sighed and corked the bottle, putting it aside. 

“This is Mr. Crowley,” he explained. “An old friend of mine. I’m afraid he’s not very used to children, but he shouldn’t give you any trouble. Isn’t that right, Crowley?”

“Whatever you say,” Crowley said wearily, crossing his arms behind his head and leaning back against the wall. 

“I’ll fetch some food and blankets,” Aziraphale fussed, heading back upstairs.

“Ooh,” Crowley said, perking up. “Do you have any more of that…”

“Not for you.” 

“Hmph,” The demon crossed his arms across his chest and pouted like a petulant child, eliciting a giggle from the three actual children in the room. Charlie wandered over and plopped down next to him. 

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Charlie and I’m almost four.”

“Hello, Charlie.” Crowley grinned. “I’m Crowley, and I’m almost six thousand.”

Emily and Jack chortled. Charlie merely asked, “How much is that?”

“A lot,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Well, now that you’re acquainted, I suppose I can leave you to it.”

“I suppose you can,” Crowley said. 

“Just…don’t try anything while I’m gone.”

The serpent smirked. “I’d cross my heart, if I had one.”  
*****************************************  
Aziraphale grabbed some blankets from a cupboard and dithered just long enough to make it seem like he was looking for food. What he really did was miracle up roast chicken and vegetables, piping hot, and for a treat, chocolate sponge. Rationing being what it was, the children probably hadn’t had much in the way of decent food in quite some time.  
Balancing a laden tray while climbing down a ladder was quite a feat, even for an angel. When he had managed, he was greeted with the sight of all three children with cigarettes dangling clumsily from their lips, and Crowley holding a lighter to each one. 

“All right, now take a drag.” the demon instructed.

“Crowley! Put those out this instant!” thundered Aziraphale, with terrifying authority. 

“Aw, come off it, we were just having a bit of fun. Weren’t we, kids?”

“Out. Now.”

“Fine,” huffed Crowley, taking each cigarette and extinguishing them on the stone floor. 

The children, now free of temptation, saw the food piled high, and clambered around and descended upon it. 

“Thank you, sir!” they chirped happily. “Oh, look, chocolate sponge!” 

The angel smiled benevolently down at the poor unfortunates. Crowley shot him a withering look over the top of his sunglasses, which said, quite simply, Oh, for Someone’s sake, stop simpering. 

“Legions of Oliver Twists roaming the streets, that’s what you always get with war.” he said, propping his head on his arms against the wall again and stretching his legs in front of him. 

“Stop it,” warned Aziraphale. “They can’t help what’s happened.” 

After the three had completely polished off the contents of the tray, they took up the blankets and fell asleep, the youngest choosing to nestle up next to Crowley, much to his chagrin. But with one admonishing glare from Aziraphale when he tried to shove the young boy off, he figured it was best to let sleeping kids lie. 

***********************

The bombs continued to fall all night. Both angel and demon had grown accustomed to the sound of distant—and sometimes not so distant—whistling and impact, and the inevitable accompanying tremors. It was going on two and Aziraphale had taken up one of his old favorites, which he was attempting to read by the light of a single candle. Crowley had dozed off with his arm slung around Charlie’s shoulders, the little boy leaning into him (1). Emily was curled up on her side against the long wall, and Jack had disappeared behind a shelf. 

It was from this direction that the angel heard a muffled sniffling sound. Putting his book town, he picked up the candle and maneuvered his regrettably somewhat portly corporation through the narrow space between the shelf and the wall, rattling some bottles as he did so. 

“Jack?” he asked in a low voice. 

A blanketed form sniffed, wiped at its face, and turned in his direction. 

“Are you all right?” he took the precaution of asking even though he already knew the answer was clearly no. 

“What am I going to do?” asked the quavering voice. “I have to take care of them now, I’m the oldest. We don’t have anywhere to go. No money. No family. Nothing.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” said Aziraphale. “I’m going to make sure you’re taken care of.”

The boy caught his breath and let it out in a great shuddering sigh. A pale hand poked out of the blanket to meet the warm surety of an angel’s grasp.  
“Thank you.”

***************************

The next morning, an angel and a demon bundled three homeless children into the backseat of an old Bentley and drove to St. James church. Aziraphale had insisted, because it was his duty as a guardian to ensure that anyone he helped would be helped in a righteous and virtuous manner. Crowley had rather callously—even for him—suggested that they toss them off one of the lesser-used bridges over the Thames, weighted down with cement blocks (2). In response, Aziraphale had uncharacteristically dealt him a smart cuff across the back of the head, after which he relented. He’d let the angel have this one. 

They pulled up in a back street near the church. Aziraphale ushered them inside while Crowley waited in the car. He lit up a smoke and leaned his head back. He hadn’t been able to get any decent sleep with a fidgety toddler curled up next to him all night. At one point the boy had crawled into his lap to curl up against his chest, and had wet himself shortly thereafter. 

Kids. He couldn’t understand what humans saw in them. 

After what seemed like an eternity, Aziraphale came back to the car. 

“So?” asked Crowley gleefully. “What’ll it be? A cruel orphanage, one meal a week and a bath every two months if they’re lucky?”

“Certainly not!” clucked the stuffy old bookkeeper. “There’s a charitable organization nearby that handles these sorts of things. They’ll be put on a train to the country and fostered.”

“Good riddance either way,” Crowley said, flicking the dog-end out the window and putting the car in gear. “What a nuisance. Couldn’t even get properly drunk.” 

“Alas, such is responsibility,” noted Aziraphale dryly as they drove through the rubble with impressive speed. 

*******************************************************************

(1) Which Crowley would later deny ever happened. Aziraphale would never tell him what an adorable tableau this made.

(2) Crowley had been reading a lot of Dickens lately, and had found the idea of “decreasing the surplus population”—not what Aziraphale had hoped he would have garnered from his reading—rather a good one in wartime. He had spent enough time with a few rather unsavory characters in America some twenty years prior to have developed some particularly nasty ways to go about doing it.


	2. Romania, 1459

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 of my "Az and Crowley through the ages" series. Again, no particular chronological order. I'm thinking I'm going to switch off between Aziraphale and Crowley as the focus. They'll both probably make an appearance in every chapter, though. 
> 
> This time, it's Crowley's turn. 
> 
> Consider yourselves warned, this one gets a bit gross.

Romania, 1459

Crowley thought the last century had been bad. He had thought many other things bad, too, and he should have reveled in them all. He had seen plague deaths, fires, witch hunts, and even a certain crucifixion. The fact of the matter was Crowley was a thoroughly disappointing demon.  
Recently he had been appointed councilor to one Vlad Tepes. He couldn’t say he enjoyed it. Young Vlad certainly had a lust for life…ending it, that was. It was Crowley’s job to advise him the art of subterfuge (1). But Tepes had soon revealed to Crowley some…other intentions, the mere thought of which turned his stomach.   
And now he was watching them unfold. Men, women, children all breathing their last as they writhed on those fatal skewers. Amid them, the prince feasted.  
Crowley wondered how he could do it. The demon himself couldn’t poke his nose out the door most days without wanting to retch. He stood there, watching him, seemingly unfazed by the screams of his victims, of the blood and the carnage and the general hacking off of limbs and other appendages. Spectators screamed and moved away quickly, lest they be the next target of the prince’s bloodlust. A single point with his knife in their direction would spell their end.   
“Carolus!” a voice called through the din. “Come and join us!”  
Crowley pushed through a throng of guards. The invitation had come from none other than Vlad himself. He was seated at a fine table with two others of his council. The three were tucking into a joint of meat and a flagon of wine. Neither of the councilors looked terribly disconcerted. Crowley shuddered to think what would happen if he declined (2). And so he did what any sane and sensible person would do when given an order from a deranged tyrant.   
He obeyed.   
“My liege,” he bowed, taking a seat at the table. Councilor Sergei offered him a plate. He took it, nodding in gratitude.   
“You look unwell, my friend.” Tepes noted, taking a decanter of wine from a tray held by a steward and pouring him a cup. “Perhaps this will help.”  
Crowley accepted the goblet gratefully and inconspicuously sniffed it. “Thank you, my liege. I’m sure it will do me well.”  
“Tell me, Carolus, have I met with your expectations?” questioned the sovereign, sweeping a hand towards the chaos.   
“Well beyond, Your Highness.” replied the serpent uneasily.   
“The cursed Turks never saw it coming, did they?”  
“I suppose not, Your Highness.”  
“Have you been enjoying your time here, Carolus?”  
Crowley nearly choked on a bite of pork. This was a dangerous and loaded question.   
“Yes, my liege…why do you ask?”  
Tepes fiddled with the handle of the dagger he kept at his side at all times. Crowley momentarily stopped breathing. “You seem troubled of late. Wary. Does my empire not please you? Has someone threatened you? You have but to tell me the name, and I shall…”  
Crowley cut him off, something that should never be done under any circumstances. Empire? What in the name of all that was sacred and profane…oh, never mind. “I’ve been ill, my liege. Quite seriously ill. In fact, the wine seems not to be agreeing with me. With your permission, I’d like to take my leave.”  
Tepes waved a hand in dismissal and Crowley hurried away, back to his apartments in the palace. On the way he passed the kitchens where a serving boy was turning a suspicious-looking roast on the fire.   
Oh Go—Sa—somebody. Whatever he’d just eaten, it hadn’t been pork.   
Crowley turned away and fled into a filthy alleyway behind the palace’s abattoir. Doubling over, he vomited copiously onto the blood-soaked ground.   
******************  
That evening, he lay in bed, feeling sicker than ever. His manservant had sent for a doctor.   
Shortly thereafter, there came a knock at the door.   
“Come in,” moaned Crowley.  
The figure who entered the rather lavishly-furnished chambers did not look like a doctor. He looked instead rather like a monk. Sandaled feet peeked out from beneath a brown robe. His hood was drawn up over his face and his hands were folded into his sleeves. He carried a satchel and wore a wooden cross about his neck.   
The monk drew nearer the bed and at last spoke. “What ails you, my child?”  
Crowley knew that voice. “Aziraphale?”  
A hand pulled back the hood, revealing a mass of blond curls. “And by what ridiculous name are you calling yourself these days?”  
“Carolus,” he said weakly. “Anton Carolus.” (3) Don’t give me grief about it, all right? I really am sick.”  
“I’ll say,” retorted his heavenly counterpart.  
“I think they’ve started eating people,” he grimaced.  
“And that bothers you?” scoffed the angel. Crowley glared at him and he cleared his throat. “Well…so…we both ended up here. What did they tell you to do?”  
“Aid the prince.” replied the demon. “I’m his bloody councilor of warfare.”  
“I should have known.”  
“So, what about you? What have you been up to?” Crowley asked bitterly, sitting up and crossing his arms. “Sssaving souls? Performing last rites?”  
“As a matter of fact,” said Aziraphale, perching on the edge of the bed. “I have. I do what I can to ease their suffering.”  
“Fat lot of good you’re doing.” he scoffed. “They’re still suffering. I don’t know about you, but I’d call being skewered alive pretty torturous.”  
“The wine was tampered with,” Aziraphale tried to change the subject.   
“What?”  
“You heard me.”  
Crowley instantly felt ten times worse. “If it was poisoned, how am I not dea—discorporated?”  
“Not poison. Ground glass. Your insides are bleeding, I’m afraid. You might live, but…oh, I should have stopped him!” Aziraphale wrung his hands and cast a frantic glance about the room as if it contained something that could put an end to Crowley’s suffering. I didn’t know it was meant for you, he wanted to say. Why was he worried? A demon was being discorporated; that was all. He should rejoice, but he didn’t. Why?  
Because he couldn’t bear to see anyone in pain, demon or not. Because of the Arrangement. Because Crowley was something approaching a friend (4).   
“Him who?”  
“The Prince’s own physician. I saw him give it to the steward to put into the decanter. I assume the others didn’t drink it?”  
Crowley thought back. The wine had only been offered to him—the others’ glasses had been filled with brandy. “So he does want me dead,” he realized.   
“It would appear so.” The angel nodded gravely.   
It wasn’t the first time this had happened. Crowley had been repeatedly foisted upon nobles and kings for his supposed ability to plot murder and chaos, but as time went by, it became evident that he did not live up to their expectations. And so, quite a few had decided that he should not live at all. It wasn’t death that he feared—he didn’t really die, after all—it was the torture. With every passing century, it seemed, there were more new and ingenious ways of extracting false truths from prisoners’ lips, to wring their very souls out. He’d had a hand in their devising, to be sure, but human beings were the ones always taking things to greater and more terrifying levels. Crowley was beginning to think the denizens of Hell were seeking asylum on Earth. He’d been on the receiving end of a device of his own making, so to speak, more times than he could remember.   
Aziraphale interrupted his grim train of thought.   
“My dear, you’ve gone quite green…”  
Crowley didn’t need a mirror to see it, nor did he have the energy to be affronted by being called ‘my dear’. He knew he looked as bad as he felt. A sudden unpleasant sensation jostled his stomach. “Pail. Now.”  
The angel miracled one up and handed it to him just in time for him to bury his face in it. Blood dribbled down his chin when he had finished. A raw, abrasive pain had erupted from his stomach to his throat and he struggled to fight back tears of agony. He sobbed once, unable to control himself.   
“Dear boy…” Aziraphale extended a hand, trying to comfort the shivering form on the bed.   
“Go, angel.” he choked.   
“What?” asked Aziraphale incredulously.  
“Get out of here. You don’t want to see this,” Crowley said, convulsing again.   
“Do you think I haven’t seen the horrible things men do to each other?” Aziraphale swept his hand in the general direction of the window to make his point. “I can certainly handle this. And you, dear fellow, are in no condition to be alone.”  
“Th…thank you.” Beads of sweat formed on Crowley’s forehead as he kept his face hidden in the wooden pail. He knew that Aziraphale had seen his tears. He really had to hand it to the prince. Only the very worst, unfortunate few could make the demon weep.   
And then there was Aziraphale…bloody stupid, stubborn Aziraphale who refused to leave his side, till the very moment he slipped off this wretched mortal coil.   
Bless him.   
A few hours later, Anton Carolus was dead and the demon Crowley descended into Hell to be born again. 

**********************************

(1) That was, according to Hell and not the rest of the council.  
(2) He’d be next on a spike and would be discorporated, dying in the line of duty, as it were. It was the closest thing Hell had to martyrs. He’d be given a new body—eventually—and sent back.  
(3) This name had gone through several incarnations already, though they were always variations of the same. In Greece, he had been Anatolius Chares, in Rome, Antonius Croelius. He would settle on Antony Crowley sometime in the mid-seventeenth century and change the spelling to Anthony in the late nineteenth.  
(4) Though Aziraphale would not admit this last to himself for almost another six hundred years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "was Vlad Tepes a cannibal" thing came up in a history class once. I can't find any valid evidence one way or the other, so I put it in there and kept it vague because it seems plausible. 
> 
> Crowley's name changes are because he seems like the kind of person who would change his name to fit in wherever he goes. 
> 
> Also, he gets poisoned and not impaled because I thought that would be a bit too graphic.

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine both of them would be uncomfortable around kids. Whereas Aziraphale would generally try to get over it and be nice, Crowley would probably just find them revolting.


End file.
